


Balter

by phantom_wired



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantom_wired/pseuds/phantom_wired
Summary: Balter- to dance gracelessly, but with enjoyment.Jiraiya learns of the deaths of the Ame orphans and drinks himself stupid. Orochimaru makes sure he gets home safely.





	Balter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awintersrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awintersrose/gifts).



> I'm not actually sure when or where Jiraiya was in canon when he found out the Ame kids died, so I just winged it!  
> This was a drabble request made by @awintersrose <3

A man of no consequence came barreling out of the izakaya, fell to his knees, and promptly expelled the contents of his stomach onto the dusty street. Another nameless fellow with a jovial expression stumbled out after him, gave him a hearty pat on the back, and offered him another drink. They ceased their friendly, drunken banter as a third body joined them in the lantern wash of crimson.

Tsunade’s plea reverberated in Orochimaru’s skull, driving him through the seedy underbelly of Konoha. The heady scent of tobacco and incense wafted from wooden cages. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft plucking of a shamisen whispered through the streets on a night breeze. Silk and chrysanthemums, charcoal knots, glossed lips, metal washed teeth. Swollen eyes, abandoned blades, fallen coins, navy ink, forgotten responsibilities.

_He’s going to drink himself to death._

Serpentine and lunar, the sannin stepped around the puddle of vomit, the two men temporarily eclipsed in his glacial shadow. They froze, tensing beneath the oppressive weight of a power beyond their imagination. Primal and beautiful. Terrifying and soft. With the quiet shuffle of black silk he was gone, bowing into the bar. One of them blinked, trying to decipher whether he had seen someone of flesh or a midnight swathed apparition.

The cotton colored mane was unmistakable. Jiraiya sat at the bar, his head low, shoulders slumped. Usually loud and jubilant, the man was solemn. The shroud of gloom he wore round himself had apparently warded off the other patrons, the seats on either side of him left empty. Orochimaru took the seat to his right and the stink of shochu immediately assaulted him. He looked over his comrade who he very well could have mistaken for being asleep, if not for the slow slide of his watery eyes beneath half open lids.

Jiraiya saw the curtain of black out of his peripheral, and with a great effort, leaned his head back. His glossy gaze lazily slithered over his friend, recognition coming slow, but soon a broad grin peeled across his tawny face.

“Haha, Orooshimar-” he hiccuped, “-Maru. You going to a funeral?”

Lord, he was very, very drunk.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Orochimaru returned evenly.

The bartender came and asked the newcomer what he wanted to drink, only to be given a polite decline.

“Pay your tab,” he instructed after the barkeep left them, not wishing to linger within the smoke stained walls of the tavern.

Jiraiya gave a strange laugh which quickly faded, his smile slipping and his brows knitting together.

“I should be at a funeral.”

The snake placed his tongue between his teeth, a pitying grimace splitting his face.

“Come off this, Jiraiya. I told you what would happen-”

“No no no, don’tchu fuckin’ give me that told you so bullshit.” Jiraiya lurched forward a little and Orochimaru watched as the man almost slipped out of his stool.

“There was no reason for them to die...” He paused, and in a mighty wave of rage, slammed his hand on the counter, almost knocking over his empty glass.

There was silence between them then, Orochimaru patiently lacing his fingers together.

“Death doesn’t have reason. It simply is.”

Jiraiya hiccuped again.

“You wasted three years of your life, and all you can do is move on. You’re acting pathetic.”

“But you did’nn know them. You did’n know…” Jiraiya trailed off, his fingers making abstract spirals in the air. _Prophecy_ barely passed his lips.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you about your pity project. I’m collecting. Now pay your tab and let’s go.”

Orochimaru wasn’t the right person to have a heart to heart with, and he didn’t feel the need to offer sympathy. Jiraiya knew of his companion’s feelings for the situation the moment he expressed his desire to stay behind in Ame. How could he expect anything else from him? The toad’s brain was soaked in rice liquor. He couldn’t make a compelling argument, or even make proper conversation in his state. All he could do was gurgle out nonsensical lamentations.

Jiraiya shook his head, downy hair swishing with his movement. With a nasal huff, Orochimaru started to search the lush, slipping his hands into the folds of his kimono in a vain attempt to locate his wallet. After much interrogating and undignified giggles, Orochimaru managed to piece together the events of Jiraiya’s night, and came to the conclusion that his wallet had been stolen at one of the brothels. Reluctant and annoyed, he paid for Jiraiya’s bill, and hoisted him out of his chair.

It was a sloppy business getting him outside. He was too inebriated to walk properly and he clung to Orochimaru in fists, twisting his haori, turning his smooth appearance into a series of wrinkles. By this time of night, the streets were becoming sparse, lanterns growing dim. At one point, Jiraiya shoved off of Orochimaru and stumbled through the alleys on his own, the other simply acting as his shadow. Eventually, the drunk fell face first into a pile of garbage, and like the nameless man, wretched his supper.

The shamisen still punctuated the night air, forlorn notes dancing with the rustle of leaves.

“I love this song,” Jiraiya cooed, drool still dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

Orochimaru gently pulled him back to his feet and took a handkerchief from a hidden pocket.

“You hate the shamisen,” he reminded as he wiped the sick from Jiraiya’s lips.

Jiraiya’s face scrunched up as if he was truly offended that Orochimaru would even suggest he disliked the instrument.

“Who the hell told you that?” He shuffled off again, half heartedly pushing his hand away.

“You did.”

“I luuuuhve the shamshen.”

The song on the wind changed, and as if to emphasize his point, Jiraiya suddenly shifted, his stance taking on a very wobbly pose. Recognition painted Orochimaru’s face.

“Jiraiya, no-”

He was interrupted by the man very loudly belting out a song in the old style, trying to sing with the distant instrument. He began to dance. Orochimaru had a mind to knock him out and transport him home. It would be easier for the both of them. But in a twist of movement, he saw that grin back in place on the mourning shinobi’s face.

Whether it was the alcohol, the music, or both, Orochimaru supposed he could grant Jiraiya this temporary mirth. Jiraiya danced and sang his way home, his companion picking him up when he fell, corralling him down the correct streets, and warding off angry villagers woken by Jiraiya’s booming voice.

By the time they made it to Jiraiya’s dingy apartment, the sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade of blue. They tripped their way in the cramped rooms, the shuffle of loose, scattered paper announcing their entry. Jiraiya ran into the table and Orochimaru caught the bottle of ink before it fell. He didn’t bother to stop him to take off his shoes.

He heard a thump from the bedroom, no doubt Jiraiya collapsing onto the bed. He filled a glass of water and followed him, forcing him to choke it down.

The tears came then, and Orochimaru didn’t chide him or attempt to leave. He was a little exasperated, but he let Jiraiya cling to him once again, his chest turning damp, calloused hands squeezing him too tight. He felt detached in Jiraiya’s pain. The novelty of his own heartbreaks had been worn away, and crying wasn’t very interesting anymore. Hurt was something he had learned to bury. But Jiraiya’s feelings were his own, and Orochimaru would allow him to feel as much as he needed to, even if he couldn’t sympathize.

When the sobs turned to snores, Orochimaru wormed his way out of Jiraiya’s grasp. He pulled off the man’s shoes, untied his hitai-ate, and pulled the blankets over him. He left him another glass of water, placed a pot near the bed, and left him for the night.

The birds sang the morning and Orochimaru walked uncomfortably home, a trembling Jiraiya still on his mind. He didn’t recognize what it was he was feeling on his solitary walk, rather he wanted to forget that strange intimacy he shared that night. He didn’t care about those kids, and he thought Jiraiya was a fool for deserting the way he did those few years ago. After all he’d seen, after all he’d done, the deaths of three orphans really ripped through him like that?

_You didn’t know them._

It doesn’t matter. Orochimaru shook his head.

It doesn’t matter.

Tsunade owed him big time.


End file.
